Spoken
by BubbleTeaCrisis
Summary: If a single word fell from his lips he knew it would be the end. One of them had to cave first and John was set on seeing the man across from him take the first hit. Sherlock would break and their was nothing John could do to hold him together. /One-shot.


_This is a sample of a story I hope to make into a ten to fifteen chapter project but I figured I would write this first and let the reviewers tell me their thoughts. Hope you enjoy!_

The rain splattered against the windows with enough force to cause the atmosphere of the flat to stir, the glass drenched with the onslaught of water as it whistled down from the cloud choked London skies, offering little more then a grayish pale light to the occupants of 221B Baker Street. Within the sheltered compartment, the outside world was nothing but a myth, the rain streaked windows washing out the scenery of the street, a dull rumble of thunder shaking glass beakers on the cluttered kitchen table and causing the signal to crackle and fuzz on the screen of the television. A single pair of speckled blue eyes stared at the moving picture, the pupils dilating and shrinking as the brain tucked away behind them worked like a freshly oiled engine, putting images before the sky soaked eyes that the television failed to produce.

Sherlock Holmes was lost in his own world.

John Watson sat across from him and silently watched.

It had been like this for quite some time; the stretch of unending silence, the sound of fake audience laughter drifting from the television before the noise was swallowed up by the roar of the storm. The only movement that had taken place within the last five hours had been the arrival of the detective through the front door, wet shoes squeaking against the battered wooden floor, black buttons popping from their woolen sheath before the male's black coat was hung up on the rack. The scarf was removed soon after but the accessory never made it to it's proper place, simply being thrown onto the couch where Sherlock soon perched himself, legs drawn up to his chest. The whole time John Watson had remained seated in the armchair, observing the detective every movement, every breath.

Nothing was said. Words were at a loss here.

Words no longer mattered.

And if something could be said, what would it be? What combination of letters, propelled by the use of voice, muscles, lips, and brain could form together into a sound that would pierce the iciness in the air and send the fortress of tension crumbling down to its very foundation? What mind, brilliant or tattered, clear or foggy, could possess the skill to form something that would properly express the emotion that was bubbling below the surface?

John could see it- he could see it brimming beneath the male's cosmic orbs. He could see it in the way his neck tensed, the careful way that Sherlock swallowed and then shifted himself ever so slightly against the surface of the couch. He was still as a cat waiting to pounce, his focus elsewhere, completely lost, completely and utterly… consumed.

John could practically hear the strings of his heart _creak _with the strain.

The ex-soldier had given up on talking. He was too busy waiting for something to happen and had completely dedicated his time to pursuing the end results of the his task, staring down at his hands momentarily before taking them and letting his face come to rest in his cold palms with a rough sigh. Sliding them down the length of his face, he let them drop once more into his lap, throat aching with the need to speak, the need to be heard.

If a single word fell from his lips he knew it would be the end. One of them had to cave first and John was set on seeing the man across from him take the first hit.

He needed to see it… John Watson needed to see the world's only consulting detective crack in two.

Then it would be his turn.

Lightning penetrated the gloomy tint of the room, shedding a brief flash of light throughout the cluttered space, forcing away the darkness that had begun to wrap about the figure on the couch as night began to creep in. It was in that single flash that John caught glimpse of the unspeakable, finding his legs pushing him steadily away from the armchair. As soon as he had reached his feet, the flash had diminished, leaving nothing but an earth shattering rumble that shook the windows violently, and caused the television to fill with static, the picture struggling to hold on. His heart was pushing against his ribs with each beat and it was all John could do to avoid telling himself out loud that the feeling wasn't real.

The image would forever be ingrained into his mind for all of eternity.

In the fading light, John could just make them out. Though the position of the detective had hardly changed, the cosmic orbs remained staring, unblinking, unchanging, the tiny square of the television screen reflecting in the pit of the marble-like irises. The breathtaking color was swimming in a warm layer of water, the substance trickling ever so slowly down the porcelain skin.

Sherlock had told John he had deleted such a pointless act, having only used it once during one of their past cases. But now here it was- an action initiated by emotion that not even the brain of a genius could completely block out.

But Sherlock had tried- Sherlock Holmes had been trying for the last eight hours to keep his deleted emotions from activating.

All John could do was look on and watch, swallowing the lump in his throat with difficulty.

He wished he could hold him… just this once.

Just…

Sherlock blinked, surfacing from his own thoughts for a brief second, blinking and letting the tears spill from his eyes. He appeared almost offended by them, wiping them away from his cheeks as if they were flies only to let his arm sink onto the couch in defeat. The cracks were thickening, spreading through his blank persona and forcing him to _feel_. He took in a slow, deep, breath that caused his chest to rise momentarily, eyes trying to focus once more as the damage began to spread. The panic flared in his eyes, continuing to stare straight ahead as if he had seen some sort of entity, the corner of his lips twitch to keep the emotions away from his features. He wouldn't give in… he needed help… he needed…

_He needed…_

_**Needed…**_

"John…"

The fortress began to crack and crumble at the ex-soldiers feet, standing across from the detective as the single word was released into the air carrying all the sadness that had manifested within the very bones of the figure before him. He could hear the helplessness, the fear, the never ending tirade of emotion packed into the four letter name that hit John harder then any bullet that had ever burrowed into his flesh. Turning his head away, the male felt his breath catch in his throat, the onslaught of tears suddenly stinging his eyes and for the first time he wished with all his heart he could just _touch_ him.

Sherlock had to deal with this by himself. Or at least, that had been his choice.

But if John could… if John were… _here_…

He placed a hand to his eyes, shaking his head slowly, a sob locked in his throat.

From the other room, the phone buzzed against the kitchen table, moving ever so slowly across the surface until it had become in danger of falling to the floor. Each message was for Sherlock, each one offering some form of condolence or question: _Do you need anything? How are you holding up? We need to discuss arrangements, when are you available to talk?_

_Take your time. – MH_

Tucked away in Sherlock's nightstand drawer, the pink phone from their first case gave a small ring from time to time, unknown to either of them as the time ticked by and the battery slowly began to drain. A single text from an unknown number rested within the digital confines of its inbox; a message from an enemy… a message sent to taunt.

A message that would serve as the final pin that would push into the sea of cracks that now made up the entirety of the broken detective curled up upon the living room couch, his purple scarf curled about his hands as he breathed in the scent of the only companion he had ever dared to keep wrapped so tightly about his now broken heart.

_**Burn forever Sherlock Holmes.**_

_** -yourbiggestfan**_

_~ So there you have it! Thoughts, suggestions, concerns, please send me anything. Basically the plot of the full story would be focused around Sherlock trying to find John, realizing he's dead, then trying to capture Moriarty, and tying in to the events that are going to be shown in the second season. I hope to write this soon if I get proper feedback- thank you!_


End file.
